


Sleeping Beauty

by the_random_writer



Category: Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Genre: Books, Cats, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6188410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ty discovers Zane won't be giving Princess Aurora a run for her money any time soon.</p><p>A spiritual sequel of sorts to my earlier ficlet, 'True Romance'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Beauty

Ty pushed at the bedroom door, and winced as the hinges emitted an alarmingly noisy squeak. He made a mental note to oil them properly in the morning. Not that he intended to make a habit of creeping into bed in the middle of the night, hours after Zane had retired. It was just that he liked to be sneaky, and noisy hinges were an affront to both his dignity and his professional senses. It was hard to skulk around like a silent and deadly ninja when the house itself insisted on betraying your every move.

It was almost two o'clock in the morning, and he was finally turning in. But he wasn't returning from a stakeout, or a last-minute training mission. He hadn't stolen out of the house to quietly carry out a black ops assassination, or to meet an informant in a dubious dockside bar. The reason for his late arrival was much less interesting than any of those explanations, and slightly, distressingly middle-aged. He'd stayed up to binge watch the final season of _Downton Abbey_ , a show that had recently become his Favourite New Thing, much to his husband's disgust.

He couldn't explain why he liked the series so much, even to his tolerant but disgruntled spouse. Maybe it was the beautiful clothes, and the refreshing absence of blood and guts. Although, there had been that one scene in episode five, when the Earl's stomach ulcer had ruptured while he was having dinner. Ty had seen plenty of gore in his time, but that had almost been enough to put him off his jalapeño-flavoured Cheetos for good. Maybe it was the fancy-schmancy words the family members used; words such as 'frightfully' and 'awfully' and 'marvellous' and 'ghastly'. He fucking loved them, especially 'ghastly'. Who the shit actually said a word like that during a normal conversation? Nobody he knew, that was for sure.

And then there was the fact that everyone was so refined. Nobody ever said 'fuck' or 'cock' or 'balls' or 'shit'. Even when they were trying to blackmail or betray each other, they did it in an amazingly classy way. In that respect, Downton Abbey was so far removed from where he'd grown up, it might as well be set on another planet, never mind a hundred or so years in the past. But what Bluefield lacked in style and grace, it more than made up for in guts and spirit. He was pretty sure his ma, his grandpa and his Aunt Tannie could all give the Dowager Countess a damn good run for her money in the snarky sass department. Especially his ma. Nobody could outsmart Mara Grady when she was on a roll, a fact that anyone with a lick of sense quickly accepted as a God-given state of affairs.

He felt strangely deflated now that the series was over, but he could always watch the Christmas Special again. He still couldn't quite decide who on the show he wanted to ball the most, although he had at least narrowed the field to two. The delectable Lady Mary, or Branson the former chauffeur? But since this was only happening in his head, why stress about the choice, when he could simply tackle them together? Yeah. An ice cold slice of Lady Mary as the frightfully marvellous filling in a Beaumont and Branson sandwich. That would _totally_ rock his boat.

He padded quietly into the room, expecting to find his other half tucked up in bed and sound asleep. The sight that greeted him almost made him turn around and go back downstairs to fetch his phone. Because Zane was very much in the land of nod, but absolutely _not_ tucked up.

He was propped up against his pillow, with his mouth hanging slightly open. Every time he exhaled, he let out a whiffly snort, which made him sound like a cross between a dying pig and an angry cat. It was honestly the most peculiar noise Ty had ever heard his husband make. And during the eight years they'd now been together, he'd heard Zane Garrett make some _very_ peculiar noises indeed.

To add insult to injury, a tiny, thin trail of drool was slowly trickling out of Zane's mouth, and down the side of his stubbled chin. Ty grinned and rolled his eyes. It was absolutely true what they said about marriage. As soon as a guy got a ring on his finger, his personal standards went to hell. One day it was aftershave and smart suits, the next it was sweat pants, itchy balls and drool. Not that he was any better, especially with the itchy balls. But a man should be allowed to scratch his parts in the privacy of his own home, spousal expectations be damned.

Zane had obviously fallen asleep while reading, because his glasses had slipped off the end of his nose, and were now resting precariously on his upper lip. His book was lying open and face down on his stomach, with his left hand curled loosely around the spine. His right arm was flopped out across the bed, and now being used as a convenient prop for Jiminy's chin. His hand was also covered in saliva, but of the feline variety instead of human. One thing was for sure. You could never accuse the members of the Grady-Garrett household, no matter how big or small, of being selfish with their bodily fluids.

Ty glanced down the bed, and saw that Zane's legs were spread wide, but only to accommodate Cricket. As usual, she had decided that despite the bed's enormous size, she could only sleep in the space between a pair of shins. And in a horizontal orientation, of course. Why she couldn't at least sleep in line with their bodies, the way her older brother did, neither of them would ever know. Evil thoughts about stubborn and unhelpful women entered and then immediately left his head.

Ty stood for a few moments, quietly appreciating the ridiculous but beautiful view. If his innards squeed any harder, he would shit out a ball of glitter, right here on the bedroom floor.

Even snuffling like a pig on crack and covered in two different types of drool, Zane was still the sexiest fucker on the planet. It really was a travesty that People magazine had never called. Hemsworth, Jackman and Reynolds were all pretty enough in their own way, but none of them could hold a candle to his gorgeous Texan stud. And he was pretty sure his husband would win an acting Oscar before Wolverine, Deadpool or Thor learned how to wield a knife as sexily as Zane.

But he couldn't stand here staring all night, no matter how wood-inducing the view was. He needed his beauty sleep, now more than ever, and he was supposed to open the store at ten. So it was time to put himself to bed, and his beautiful husband as well, which meant carefully extracting the glasses and the book.

Ty squinted, trying to figure out if it was only the friction of Zane's stubble holding the spectacles onto his upper lip. It _was_ very stubbly stubble. Possibly the most stubbly stubble in the whole of the United States. Not that he'd personally tested the entire set of manly American facial hair, despite what Zane and Julian thought. He'd merely been able to appraise a variety of pleasing samples from a wide range of appropriate sources.

But if Zane moved during the night, even that gorgeous stubble wouldn't be able to save the day. The glasses would meet their maker, in a frightfully ghastly way. He should really rescue them from a potentially unseemly end, especially since they were the Calvin Klein pair. They made Zane look like a sexy, sensitive Harvard professor, but had cost him almost as much as a gold-plated Glock. Nothing but the best for his baby.

He reached out slowly with his thumb and his index finger, pinched the glasses at the bridge, and carefully pulled them away. But not carefully enough. Zane twitched violently, and snorted himself wide awake.

So much for his ninja moves.

Ty froze, caught in the act, not quite sure of what to do next. If he waited it out, Zane might close his eyes and go back to sleep. And then they could look at each other across the counter in the morning, without having to acknowledge that Zane had just made a noise like a warthog buffing the baloney.

He noticed that neither cat had moved, despite the sudden, loud disturbance. Then again, they _were_ professional, hardcore nappers, in very serious training for the next Feline Napping Olympics. It would take more than a twitchy, snorty, drooly human to disturb them from their precious slumber.

Zane coughed quietly, licked his lips, and looked around the room in sleepy confusion. His eyes eventually focused on Ty, who was still standing guiltily beside the bed, probably looking as if he couldn't decide whether he wanted to fight or flee.

"Hey, doll, everything okay?"

"Fine, babe. Just coming to bed now. You fell asleep reading. Was taking your glasses off," Ty explained, folding up the Calvin Kleins and placing them safely on the bedside table.

"Did you say something when you came in?" Zane asked, frowning slightly.

"Not a word. Why?"

"Just thought I heard a weird noise, is all," Zane murmured.

Ty bit on his lip to smother his grin. A weird noise. Yeah. He could totally go with that. For the sake of his husband's dignity, if nothing else.

It could have been a _lot_ worse. At least Zane hadn't farted himself awake. He'd done that once, in the house in Jacksonville. Guffed so violently and so loudly, he'd had his gun out from under his pillow, ready to shoot whatever moved, before he realized the 'armed intruder' was only his own toxic ass. Nick had not been amused, by either the gun _or_ the fart. The Irishman had banned him from eating bedtime tacos made out of refried beans and Cheetos for the rest of the year.

"Think you were just dreaming, babe," he said, extracting the book from under his husband's hand and placing it beside the glasses.

He noticed Zane had flexed the spine to make it easier to hold the book open, and huffed quietly. If there was one thing he couldn't tolerate in a marriage (other than a spouse who drooled), it was improper treatment of paperback books. Especially since they sold the bloody things for a living. It was like running a sex shop, and allowing your wife to use the extra-large cock rings as her napkin holders. You just didn't do it, if you had even the slightest respect for the tools of your trade.

"Must have been a weird dream then," Zane replied, obviously not convinced.

Ty smiled, leaned over to switch off the bedside lamp, then started to strip out of his clothes. "Maybe you were dreaming about blowing me," he suggested as he expertly threw his boxers into the laundry hamper. "That usually produces some weird noises."

"You're funny."

"Fucking hilarious, actually," Ty replied, slipping under the covers and scooting in to steal Zane's heat. "You don't know how lucky you are to have me as a husband."

"Why don't you remind me in the morning?" Zane mumbled, his eyes drifting close again.

Ty grinned, and trailed a finger seductively down his husband's chest. "Why don't I remind you now?" he murmured in a teasing voice.

Silence.

"Zane, did you hear me?"

Zane said nothing, but simply picked up from where he'd left off, and let out yet another whiffly snort. The pickle painting warthog was back.

Ty sighed, trying to decide whether to be amused or annoyed. Fuck it. Right now, he was too damn tired to be either. But that didn't mean his other half was off the hook. If he had to listen to that terrible racket for the rest of the night, because God forbid he would actually be able to sleep, then Zane could damn well get out of bed first to open the store. And the retribution wouldn't end there.

"Just you fucking wait, Garrett," Ty muttered as he shuffled back to his own side of the bed. "I'm gonna tape you to the recliner, then make you watch the Christmas Special with me. And while you're sitting there, bitching and whining like a baby, I'm gonna tell you in precise, excruciating detail _exactly_ what I want to do with Branson and Lady Mary. And if you fall asleep on me after that, I swear to God, you'll be glad I bought you that orthopaedic pillow for your birthday, because you'll be using it to break your fall when I throw you off the goddamn balcony, along with all of your shit."

The snoring continued unabated. If anything, the volume increased.

Ty huffed. This would _never_ happen to Lady Mary. For people as elegant as the Crawleys, snoring, drooling or farting in bed was probably a whipping offence. But a man being in love with another man wouldn't be tolerated at Downton, either. So maybe the Crawleys weren't quite as smart and refined as they liked to think.

The posh English people could keep their nice clothes and their fancy words.

All he would ever want was the amazing man lying next to him in the bed.

With or without the drool.


End file.
